


scarred (on your left)

by littledust



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2400239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a scar running up his left pinky. Steve knows because he can't stop staring at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scarred (on your left)

Sam has a scar running up his left pinky. Steve knows because he can't stop staring at it.

Well, it's safer than staring into his eyes all the time, or at his mouth, or at the way his clothes fit his body. It's just a _scar_. Just a raised thin line on brown skin. All scars have stories, right? It's probably from combat, some close call Sam was able to laugh off later. Thinking of Sam almost dying is enough for Steve to clamp down on any inconvenient attractions he may or may not be harboring for a member of his team.

_Sam isn't an Avenger,_ his libido reminds him.

_Yet,_ he replies, and goes back to staring at Sam's mysterious pinky scar whenever they're alone too long. Like when they have to fill out paperwork in triplicate, even though SHIELD no longer officially exists, before they're allowed to actually go after Bucky. The Winter Soldier. Steve rubs his eyes. ( _That's a whole other can of fish,_ as Dernier liked to say, having confused "can of worms" and "kettle of fish." _It makes more sense,_ he liked to argue. _Tuna comes in a can._ )

It's good to remember things like that without it hurting too much. His present day friends help. _Sam_ helps. Right now the helper in question is tapping the fingers of his left hand, pinky included, on his coffee table. 

It's just that. Well. The longer he stares, the more he wants to put that finger in his mouth and run his tongue along the scar. It's _Sam,_ Sam who helped him save the world no questions asked, who waited at his goddamn _bedside_ like some kind of war bride--

Steve has to laugh at the image of Sam in a veil. That's not how weddings have to work nowadays, but a veil and those wings would be a picture.

"Man, are you okay?" Sam asks, brow creasing. "I thought you were mad at me all week, but now you're just laughing at nothing."

Steve shrugs. "Just getting a little nonsensical inside my own head." He lifts his hand running his right index finger along his own left pinky. "Where'd you get the scar?"

"Oh, that?" Sam looks at his finger, like he has to check if the scar is still there. "Sixth grade school bus. There was a screw with a broken head. Had to get a tetanus shot and everything. Why?"

"No reason."

Sam resumes tapping his fingers and adds humming to the mix. Steve recognizes the "Get Lucky" song from the radio, except… he's pretty sure Sam is singing _We're up all night to get Bucky._ "Sam."

Sam looks up with a grin. "Steve."

"Nice song."

"Yeah, well." Sam shoots him a look from under his eyelashes. "We could be up all night to get lucky, but instead we're filling out all this damn paperwork."

"At least they let us take it home," Steve replies, some part of his brain autopiloting on polite conversation. Most of him is screaming, _Flirt! Flirt!_ And now looking at that damn scar is no help, because he wants to lick it, then he wants to _suck_ it, he wants to--

"Hell with it," Steve says, and raises Sam's hand to his mouth.

Sam says nothing, nothing at all, as Steve bites down. There's a hitch in his breathing. Otherwise, everything in the living room is still.

Then Sam closes his eyes, and _fuck._ Steve runs his tongue over the indentations his teeth left, up and down the long thin line of a scar with an origin story less heroic than imagined, but it's part of Sam, a piece of his history. And that's the whole problem in a nutshell, because Steve _cares_ about what Sam was like as a kid, and how he takes his coffee, and whether he gets enough sleep. Steve doesn't do casual, but it hurts to date within the team.

"So this has fulfilled about three different fantasies I didn't even know I had," Sam says, voice somehow casual despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "But my finger's getting pruney. And we should probably move away from all these nicely filed papers. And I swear to God, if you overthink yourself out of doing this, I will steal your shield and use it as a cutting board."

Steve blinks. Laughs.

( _Always let it be someone you can laugh with,_ his mother told him. Remembering the rest of the conversation still gives him a reflexive twinge of preadolescent horror, decades later.)

They don't touch on the walk to the bedroom. It's the stretch of time between departure and destination, one mission and the rest. Steve's not good with downtime, though, and he's on Sam as soon as they both cross the threshold. Hands cupped around Sam's face. Kissing him so hard that Sam's tooth nicks his lip, a scrape that heals as soon as it's felt. Sam shudders, his own hands blazing a hot trail from Steve's shoulders to his waist.

"This time is gonna be quick," Sam pants against Steve's neck.

"This time," Steve says, and draws back just long enough for Sam to see his smile.

It _is_ quick. Steve doesn't care to count how long it's been, and the only ex Sam's ever mentioned was from five years ago. He's the one who comes first, embarrassingly soon after Sam wraps a sure hand around his dick. One stroke, two strokes, a few more, and he's done.

"So much for super serum stamina," Steve says, dry as he can manage in the aftermath of his orgasm, with Sam's dark eyes raking up and down the length of him.

Sam resettles himself against him with a grunt, dick pressed against Steve's thigh. "But Jesus Christ, your quads."

"Hey, no need to make me feel better. Happens to a lot of--"

Then Sam cuts him off with a kiss. Good. Steve's never going to be the funny guy in the room, and it's even worse when it's just him and someone else in a bedroom. Apparently. It feels good to tell a joke with a smile behind it instead of barely repressed barbed wire. It feels good to have Sam rubbing himself off against his thigh, streaks of precome proof of passage. But a guy doesn't leave someone hanging like that. Steve rolls to the left and then Sam is arching off the mattress and into Steve's hand, straining, cursing, sweating, incredible.

Sam comes, and Steve gets to be the one who catches him as he falls.

They lie next to each other, pulling in long breaths. It's at least five minutes before Sam turns onto his side with a low, contented noise. Steve grants himself a moment to be smug before he grabs Sam's hand, impulsive, and kisses the damn scar that started it all.

"Of course Captain America is a romantic," Sam says, but he brushes a kiss of his own over Steve's knuckles.

There are so many people Steve wants to introduce to Sam. Most of them are dead. It aches, thinking of the missed opportunities, but for once, the hurt _feels_ old. Maybe memories, like battle wounds, can heal.

"Steve Rogers always was," Steve says. "You'll have to ask Bucky someday."


End file.
